The Rise and Fall of Harry Potter
by It's Just That
Summary: [AU! SnapementorsHarry eventual!slash] “Now I do not care whether you would accept the fact that you were born with magic or not, but you are the Boywholived…” What if, on Harry's eleventh birthday, Snape came instead of Hagrid?


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Title: The Rise and Fall of Harry Potter

Disclaimer: J.K. Rowling owns Harry Potter. All rights reserved.

Overall Rating: M

Chapter Rating: K

Warnings: Total AU, swearing, eventual Slash, dark!creature!Harry and overall crappiness of the story. It's not **beta-d** so it would warm my soul if you could point out some mistakes so I could correct them.

Summary: What if, the Dursleys hid Harry's acceptance letters to Hogwarts? What if there was _no _owls, and _no _Hagrid to come pick up the Boy-Who-Lived?

What if…

Snape had gone in Hagrid's stead?

AN: Once again, every (or most) writers, should have a Snape-mentor fiction. I don't know how I got this idea, but I do profusely thank all of the other Snape-mentor fictions! I know it sometimes gets annoying, reading a Harry-when-he's-eleven-years-old fiction, but please, do bear with me. I promise he won't stay that way for the whole story. It's necessary for the plot (not that I have one) you see.

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"_Now I don't care whether you would accept the fact that you were born with magic or not, but you **are** the Boy-who-lived…"_

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Chapter 1: Harry's Surprise

Once upon a time, in a land that was in what everyone nowadays called 'England' was a little boy that went by the name of Harry James Potter. He lived in the country of 'Surrey', with his aunt and uncle Dursley, in a white, uniformed house that was exactly like everyone else's. The hedges everyday were trimmed, the lawns watered perfectly, and the walkway was as clean as if it had never been walked upon. All in all, Surrey seemed like the perfect little country.

But ahh, it wasn't.

For you see, Harry James Potter was not a very happy boy—nor was he a very talkative person. Most considered him sulky, though, in truth, perhaps he was.

Harry had large, inquisitive emerald green eyes that shone with lazy intelligence, and he was rather small for his age—though this may be due to the fact that he slept in a cupboard for the first eleven years of his life.

He always had to do chores, which he hated with a passion, since his fat cousin of a whale liked to make fun of him for it.

There was never a time, when you would see him, doing something for himself. Most of the time, however, you would hear the usual shriek of "FREAK!" from the Dursley's house, and the sound of shoes shuffling conspicuously to the doorway.

Harry, at times, would play a _little _trick on his not-so-very-kind relatives. For example, he would put some laxatives in their tea, or _accidentally _hose Dudley (mentioned earlier as the fat cousin of a whale) with water whenever he had to clean the car. "Oops, that was a slip of the hand," he would tell his seething cousin, trying not-so-very hard to conceal the smirk on his face.

Yes, I suppose you _could _call him vindictive, but he wasn't really.

Maybe just… a bit hot-headed.

There came a particular time of year for Harry, that made him wish, wish, wish. Of course, it wasn't just _any _time or day. It was _his _birthday. And as you know, everyone's birthday was special.

At least, it was thought to be.

Funny thing was, Harry's birthdays were never special. Just odd.

Odd being that he received little trinkets from people called 'Padfoot' and 'Moony'. The gifts were always delivered through the small opening in his cupboard. It was a wonder that anything could fit through at all.

Though, Harry didn't mind. In any case, a total of _two _people cared for his miserable existence. That made him feel _slightly _better.

Waiting for the usual gifts to pop into his cupboard, Harry peered through the darkness that was _his _sanctuary.

A light bulb (that was never turned on, for the switch was outside and the Dursleys hated wasting anything on him), hung precariously on the small ceiling of his _room_, and whenever one walked up or down the stairs, his room would shake, shake, _shake_.

The cupboard was like any cupboard—small in size, plain in decoration. Though at least, there were some mothballs covering the floor, and some age old stickers of The Beatles placed on the door.

Anyone in their right mind would call the cupboard-a well, cupboard, but to Harry, it was his room.

_His _room that no one in their right minds would take away and trespass into. The Dursleys never came in it, so it was all his.

_**His.**_

Suddenly, there was a small tap on the door, and Harry eagerly awaited for the usual gift wrapped in brown paper to come. Instead of a gift, the tiny door swung open and in came a pale, leering face, all stony and angry and just plain scary.

Harry's first reaction was to scream, but he thought better of it.

Maybe the man came to celebrate his birthday?

Suddenly brightening at that optimisitc notion, Harry jumped up, and hit his head on the ceiling.

"Oww!"

He forgot that his room was small.

The man scowled, his face becoming even more sour. His aquiline nose stuck out painfully in the darkness, and from what Harry could tell, the man had _very _greasy hair.

"Come here, Potter. Let's grab your things—" the greasy haired man's words faltered, when he caught sight of Harry's baggy cast-offs that hadn't been washed for some time. After a moment or two, he arched an elegant eyebrow.

"My, my. It seems as if you need to take a shower," the man sneered, but twitched when emerald eyes stared blankly at him. "Well then, come on you brat, we haven't all day." He gestured for Harry to follow him, but the small boy stayed rooted to the spot, staring fixedly at the man's aristocratic features.

"Are you the boogey man?" Harry finally whispered, eyes wide as he took in the man's immaculate black robes and long, spidery hands.

"Yes, now boo," replied the stranger in a flat voice.

Harry stared.

The man scowled.

"Fine, no I am not."

"Then who are you?" asked Harry, irritated. He was supposed to have a present, but instead of a present, this boogey-man person came. Where was his present? And why was a man here instead of them? He glared in the darkness, awaiting the man's answer.

"...I am Professor Snape, from Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry—the finest, and dare I say, the best school for Witches and Wizards in England," answered Snape curtly, yet proudly. He gently took a hold of Harry's hand and guided him out of the cupboard.

The dour man straightened, before continuing, "I have been sent by the Headmaster of Hogwarts, Albus Percival Wulfric Dumbledore to fetch and take you away from your relatives. There, at Hogwarts, I, and other unfortunate staff members, will teach you magic and cultivate your talents so that you will not-and I certainly hope you do not-become a pathetic nothing in your miserable life."

At this, Harry snorted.

"There's no such thing as magic," he responded sulkily. "My aunt and uncle Dursley said so."

Snape scowled, now obviously angry. He yanked Harry forward and bent down so they were eye to eye. "They are a couple of moronic twits," he hissed, spittle flying onto Harry's face. "You need not believe every word they tell you." He released Harry and stood, obsidian eyes glowering with ill-concealed scorn.

Wiping the spit away from his face, Harry muttered, "Well a good lot magic does me, if it never helped me get out of _this_ house in the first place! Magic was never, _ever _there when I needed it!"

"Foolish boy," Snape spat, casting a dark look at Harry. "It was always there, but never when you wanted it to be." He waved a slender onyx stick in the air. "Magic is a fickle thing, and it doesn't always come when you want it to. And this," said Snape, a strange look in his eerie black eyes, "comes from personal experience."

"I still _don't _have magic," said Harry stubbornly. "I _know _I _don't _have magic."

The older man grinded his teeth loudly together in frustration. "Your magic surrounds your diminutive body in tumultuous waves, and it surprises me how long you stayed in control of it," he said, jaw clenched.

"Now I don't care whether you would accept the fact that you were born _with _magic or not, but you are the Boy-who-lived. You have no reason to stay here with these disgusting relatives of yours—who probably withheld all of your Hogwarts letters—so let us be off."

Harry started. "Letters? What letters?" he questioned, snapping his head up to meet the man's glowering gaze.

Snape let out an insufferable sigh. "Not now, Potter. We have to go before your relatives awaken. I left a note, pinned on their ice box telling them of your whereabouts. Get ready," he warned, before once again grabbing Harry's hand.

"W-wah?" Harry sputtered, as the greasy-haired man sneered.

With a loud pop, they were gone from the Dursley's house.

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Reviews would be lovely.

Constructive criticism appreciated.

Suggestions thanked for.

And flames thrown into the nearest garbage dump.

No pairings yet, but I will think about it, yes. Now click the pretty blue button.


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